


Balance

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disability, Drugs, Feelings, Gen, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Murder, Poisoning, Prompt Fill, Sherlock is a big baby, handicaps, john is a saint for putting up with him, mobility problems, what is plot, wheelchair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a kidnapping and poisoning, Sherlock's legs are paralyzed. He's not amused, obviously, and John can't help but feel a little guilty, because his mobility problems went away, and Sherlock's won't.<br/>There is also a serial killer, which should be cheery, but doesn't make Sherlock as happy as it should. This concerns John.</p><p>Also featuring an annoyingly perky physical therapist, some dead bodies, and a shower scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt which can be found here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131521657#t131521657

It was the fourth day, and he didn't want to eat it.

But it was the fourth day, and because he was on a case, he hadn't eaten in more than five.

They could have put anything in the food, a sedative, some sort of toxin, drugs, anything.

Or nothing.

 

But it was the fourth day and he hadn't eaten in more than five, and despite what John thought sometimes, he couldn't survive on air alone.

So he ate it.

 

He didn't pass out and he didn't die and he didn't get high, so there was nothing immediately life threatening in the food.

Still, he didn't eat again until the seventh day.

 

Nothing happened after he ate that.

 

The food was awful, which was to be expected, since he was kind of being held as a prisoner.

He had the same issues with the water, but he couldn't last long without water, so he'd been drinking it from day 2.

 

Whoever had taken him didn't seem to want much. They'd only beaten him the once, on the sixth day when he took to yelling.

 

It was only the two men who'd taken him, and Sherlock couldn't find any motive for them doing so. Neither of them had been arrested before, so it wasn't out of revenge. He didn't think they were holding him for ransom, since that should have been over quickly. They didn't torture him for information or threaten people to get him to do things.

Simply put, Sherlock was at a loss.

 

It hadn't been a very complicated takedown, with a lot of room for error. They'd pulled him into an alley on his way home and drugged him while he fought them off. There was only so much one man could do. The element of surprise was a big factor, and the drugs certainly worked against him.

He awoke in a small room that was barren of almost everything except for a thin mattress and a bucket.

They brought him food and water twice a day, and didn't speak to him. Sherlock didn't even see their faces since they wore masks.

And then were clever enough, or perhaps just lucky, to not provide him with anything he'd been for an escape. The mattress held no springs, he was not given cutlery, and his clothes were searched and items removed.

 

He was stuck.

 

So he ate the food and drank the water and was completely and utterly bored.

 

He ate on the fourth day and the seventh day and the ninth day and the tenth day.

It was the eleventh day when he started to realize something was wrong.

 

His muscles began to ache, which was unusual, since he hadn't been doing heavy activity or anything else to hurt them. He'd been drinking enough water, so it wasn't dehydration. His head ached and his mind was foggy, both concerning, since his mind was everything. His legs had pins and needles and no amount of rubbing or shifting positions would relieve the sensation. The terrible food left a bad taste in his mouth. He was lightheaded and his pulse was fast and he felt like crap and didn't know what to do.

 

So he did the only thing he could. He drank more water and fell asleep on the thin mattress in the corner and dreamed that John and Lestrade and maybe even Mycroft would find him.

 

He faded in and out after that, losing track of the days and if he ate or not. He didn't think he ate, since he wasn't at all hungry, which he knew wasn't normal, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He drank water and slept and dreamed of being rescued.

 

He wasn't sure if he was rescued, or if it was a dream.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up in the hospital, and wasn't sure if he was still dreaming, because John was there and that was exactly what he'd been dreaming about.

 

He woke up in the hospital again, and John was still there, and maybe it wasn't a dream.

 

He woke up in the hospital a third time and John was still there, sleeping in a chair at his bedside, and Sherlock was pretty sure it wasn't a dream.

 

“John?” he whispered.

John's head sprang up, and he looked disoriented for a minute before he looked at Sherlock and a smile grew on his face.

“Hello,” he said kindly. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock thought about that for a minute.

“I'm not really sure,” he said finally. “Better, I think.”

John nodded. “Do you remember what happened?”

Sherlock sorted through the memories.

“They took me... terrible food... how many days was it?”

“Fourteen days.”

Sherlock frowned. That meant he had lost three days.

“How did you find me?”

John shook his head. “We didn't. You were dumped in Regent's Park. You were found unconscious and taken to hospital, where you've been for three days.”

Sherlock blinked. Three days. Huh.

“Can I go home now?” he whispered.

John laughed. “No, not yet. You're still undergoing treatment.”

Sherlock frowned again. “For what?”

“Oh, sorry. Lead poisoning. The levels in your blood were pretty high when you got here. You were unconscious, and not very responsive, so they tested for everything. No sign of drugs, which was good, but the lead poisoning was pretty bad.”

“Lead poisoning?” Sherlock repeated.

John nodded. “It's more common in children, since they grow faster and have a tendency to put everything in their mouth, but adults can get it. Do you have any idea how?”

Sherlock shook his head.

John pressed forward. “What did they feed you? Did you have water? You were in shock too, when you got here.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. “I don't know. The food was... not good. I had water. I remember drinking a lot of water near the end because I felt like crap, but there are three days that I don't remember at all.”

John nodded. “It could have been in the food or the water, maybe both.”

“The water... the bottles were undone,” Sherlock said slowly. “And the food, I thought it tasted bad because they were terrible cooks, but they were poisoning me and I didn't realize it! I'm so stupid,” he moaned, covering his face with his hands.

He tried to turn away from John, to bury himself in the sheets and go to his mind palace, but it didn't work. John's hand on his arm somehow anchored him, and the tubes and wires certainly weren't helping his cause.

“It's not your fault Sherlock,” he said firmly. “It's not. How were you supposed to know they were poisoning you? And even then, what could you have done? You can't go without water for that long. It's not your fault. And you're being treated now, so you'll be fine. Some more chelation therapy, renal tests, check up on everything else to make sure you're fine, which it will be, because you're always fine, and then we can go home. Okay?”

Sherlock scowled at him.

John smiled. “There you go. Do you want your laptop?”

Sherlock bit his lip. He really did, but he was also tired, not that he would admit it to John.

“No,” he said shortly, and shook off John's arm to roll onto his side.

His limbs felt heavy and his head still hurt.

 

He slept.

 


	3. Chapter 3

When he woke up again, it was morning, and John wasn't in his room.

Sherlock tried to squelch the fear in his chest, but it didn't work.

“John?” he called. There was no reply, and the fear rose into his throat.

He tossed the blanket aside and pulled the IV line. Some of the other wires had disappeared while he slept, which he was thankful for. He tossed the rest aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

If John wasn't there, he would go find him.

 

He was surprised to find himself on the floor instead of halfway across the room like he intended.

“Sherlock?” John gasped.

Sherlock looked up, and what do you know, there was John.

 _Tea,_ Sherlock told himself, noting the cup in his hand. _John just went to get tea._

“Hello John,” Sherlock said, as calmly as he could while lying on the floor.

John sighed, and reached over him, presumably to press the call button, and set his cup down on the sidetable.

 

“What are you doing on the floor?” John asked, crouching down next to him.

“That is an excellent question,” Sherlock told him, “But it's one I don't know the answer to.”

John frowned as the nurse came in behind him.

“Oh Mr Holmes, what are you doing out of bed?”

Sherlock only shrugged, and allowed the two to lift him back. The nurse fussed over his bleeding hand, and bandaged it up before starting an IV in his other arm.

“Yes, you do need it,” John told him before he could even ask. “More drugs for chelation therapy.”

Sherlock nodded, and sighed, closing his eyes.

 

He waited for the nurse to leave before opening them again.

John was looking at him pointedly. “I just went to get tea,” he told him.

“Yes, but at the time, I didn't know that,” Sherlock sighed.

“That doesn't explain why you ended up on the floor,” John pointed out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh like I hadn't realized that, thank you for being so clever.”

John only sighed at him again.

 

Sherlock ate breakfast and fell asleep. In the afternoon, DI Lestrade arrived to take his statement, and Sherlock told him all he could, which they all knew wasn't enough.

Still, Lestrade took detailed notes and asked questions, and before he left, told Sherlock if he needed anything, to ask, with a hand on his shoulder and a glance at John.

Sherlock managed to smile at him.

 

Sherlock fell asleep again and woke up around dinner. John was still sitting in his room, which he was relieved about. Based on the look of concentration on the man's face, and the way he was attacking the keyboard of his laptop, he was typing out a blog post, although Sherlock had no idea what about.

 

He ate dinner and fell asleep and didn't wake up until morning, and John wasn't there again, but he didn't panic. He just waited for him to get back, and counted down the seven minute grace period before Sherlock would get up and go find him.

Thankfully, he returned at the four minute, nine second mark.

John seemed pleased to not find him on the floor.

 

Blood tests showed the lead levels were nearly down to a manageable amount. Renal tests showed his kidneys were handling it just fine. Even his electrolytes and vitamin levels were within normal (for Sherlock) parameters. Sherlock took that to mean he could leave shortly. John was slightly less optimistic, but knew how Sherlock could get about that sort of thing.

 

The only problem was the legs.

 

He didn't tell John about it, because he didn't want him to worry.

No, that was a lie. He didn't tell John because that would mean he'd have to admit it to himself, then to John, and that would make it real. As long as it was a secret, he could pretend it wasn't happening.

 

Except it was.

 

Not long after he fell out of bed, he realized that the pins and needles sensation he'd had while in captivity was gone, only to be replaced by... nothing. He had no sensation in his lower legs.

He researched it while John was napping, or preoccupied by other things, and he came to the conclusion that it was nerve damage from the lead toxicity.

It would be the same conclusion the doctors would come to after days of more tests, and Sherlock didn't want that.

He wanted to go home.

 

But he'd tried walking while John went home to shower and change, and it always ended the same way. He was on the floor.

 

It was so frustrating, because his body just refused to work.

It stopped at his knees though, and he was clever enough to realize that he could probably make it work, since he could bend his knees, and that had to be one of the most important things for walking.

He'd never really thought about it.

 

But apparently ankles were important or something, since he kept falling over.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day John decided, probably with the help of the other doctors and nurses and whatever, that Sherlock should get out of bed and shower.

 

There were a few problems with that. First, he wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Second, he wouldn't be able to walk to the washroom. And third, he wouldn't be able to stand during the shower. Then the whole returning to bed thing.

It wasn't going to work.

 

So Sherlock shook his head and refused and rolled over again, willing for nerve damage to reverse itself.

 

“Sherlock,” John said helplessly, standing over the bed like he could summon Sherlock out of it. “You can't go home if you don't prove to them you're capable of taking care of yourself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, I was poisoned, I didn't suffer a brain injury.”

“The point still stands.”

Sherlock ignored him. “I don't want to.”

John took a deep breath. “This isn't about what you want to do. This is about what you _need_ to do.”

Sherlock didn't respond to that.

“Are you sulking? Is that what this is? Are you angry at yourself for eating the food, for drinking the water? Are you angry at me for not rescuing you? Are you, I don't know, angry at the world or something? Because lying in bed is not going to fix any of that.”

Sherlock sighed, most of the fight gone out of him. “I'm not angry at you John. It's not your fault.”

John slouched into the chair. “I know,” he admitted. “But still. So what is it then?”

“Nerve damage,” Sherlock said carefully.

John frowned. “Nerve damage- Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You asked me why I was on the floor,” Sherlock muttered. “That's your answer.”

“Nerve damage,” John repeated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “See, this is why I didn't want to tell you. You get all... doctory and worried and it's just a big mess.”

“So you thought, what, you could just hide this from me and I wouldn't notice? I'm not _stupid_ Sherlock,” John hissed.

“No, you're not,” Sherlock told him morosely.

“Oh god... Sherlock, were you scared? Because, I know you'd like everyone to think that you're inhuman and don't suffer from emotions like the rest of us, but that sounds a hell of a lot like you're scared to me.”

Sherlock gave a non-committal shrug, which was as good as agreeing.

John leaned forward in his chair and set his head in his hands.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. I'm sorry. I'll get a neurologist in here to look at you, and we can see the extent of the damage. Where is it?”

“Lower legs,” Sherlock said patiently. “Below the knees only.”

John nodded. “Right. That's good.” He lifted the sheet off Sherlock's feet and began examining them.

“Can you feel any of this?” he asked as he prodded his legs in multiple places.

Sherlock shook his head. “No sensation, no motor control.”

John attempted to smile, but mostly just looked sad. He covered Sherlock's feet up again.

“Alright, you just stay in bed this time, and I'll go speak to the nurses about a consult.”

Sherlock nodded at him and didn't move until he was well out of sight.

When John was gone, he tucked his ankles into what looked to be a more comfortable position, and curled up on his side.

 

He hated it. He'd survived so much, stabbings, shootings, poison attempts, strangulation, dozens of other things he'd probably forgotten about, and this would be the one that would take him down. Lead poisoning. It made him sick.

Legs were sort of needed for being a consulting detective. Not necessary, not like his mind or his vision was, but they were important. And not even that, because if he was going to admit it to himself, it wasn't just about The Work. Because he didn't want to be disabled.

And right now, that's where he was headed. Maybe with physical therapy he could get some sensation back, or some motor control back, but for now there was nothing, and he hated it.

He willed himself to sleep before John could come back.

 


	5. Chapter 5

A day and countless tests later confirmed what Sherlock suspected, nerve damage.

After the neurologist, there was a physical therapist and an orthotist.

They talked to him about braces, used acronyms that he hadn't heard of before, and he mostly tuned them out.

John apologized for him, and took the pamphlets they gave him.

He spoke with Sherlock after they left and explained it in terms he could understand, while not being condescending.

“They're called ankle foot orthoses, or AFOs. They'll help you walk.”

Sherlock heard that part, and perked up considerably.

“What do they entail?” he asked suspiciously.

“They'll have to cast your legs to make the braces. But when they're done, they'll stabilize and support your ankles, so you can work on walking.”

Sherlock considered that.

“Why didn't they just say so?”

John sighed. “They did.”

Sherlock shrugged.

 

The next day they casted Sherlock's legs to make plaster forms. The orthotist told them it would take about three weeks until they were done, and that an appointment would be set up as an outpatient.

Sherlock wasn't listening, he was in his mind palace during the whole thing, but John told him later as he was being wheeled off for physical therapy.

 

“Stop scowling, Sherlock,” John sighed.

“M'not,” he muttered.

“Yes you are,” John replied patiently.

“Whatever.”

 

John sighed again, but didn't speak again in the lift, or when Sherlock was being wheeled to his own personal hell.

He generally didn't like physical therapists. They tended to be enthusiastic, helpful, and cheery.

But he wasn't going to be discharged from the hospital until he'd been assessed more thoroughly than he had been yesterday, which was merely a test of sensation and function, not ability.

 

“Hello Mr Holmes. Can I call you Sherlock?”

Sherlock glanced up at her.

Brown hair, blue eyes, stereotypically pretty face. One cat, no siblings, ambidextrous. Worked as a physical therapist for around five years.

Despite himself, Sherlock liked her.

“Yes,” he declared. “And your name?”

She smiled at him. “Amanda.” Her eyes shifted to above Sherlock. “And your friend?”

“John,” he said, holding out a hand for her to shake.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I've been told I can't go home until you're done with me,” he told her.

She smiled halfway at him and nodded.

“Well, _I've_ been told you have nerve damage in your lower legs. From what I understand, it's fairly limited, so you still have control of your knees?”

Sherlock nodded, and she continued. “Okay, so we'll see how walking goes for you. You've been fitted for AFOs?”

Sherlock nodded again, understanding what the acronym meant now.

“Excellent. I can get you a temporary pair until your custom ones come in. Just to tide you over until then. How's your upper body strength?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her. “Enough to support myself.”

She grinned at him. “Let's see it then.”

 

Amanda positioned him on the parallel bars, and Sherlock shuffled his way across them, cursing his useless ankles.

 

When he was seated in the wheelchair again, Amanda studied him.

“Okay, that wasn't bad. I'm going to get you a pair of AFOs, and we can see if those help, alright?”

Sherlock nodded, and didn't even try to kick her while she measured his legs. Not like he could very easily, but the point still stood.

 

She returned after a few minutes with a pair of braces and a pack of knee high socks.

“They chafe badly otherwise,” he told him, tossing the pack of socks at him. “And since you don't have any sensation, it could be bad. You want to go ahead and put a pair on while I sort these out?” she asked, gesturing to the braces.

Sherlock tore open the package while Amanda ripped at velcro. He struggled with getting his toes into the sock before John gave in and helped without so much as a word. Sherlock tugged them up to his knee and flattened them out on his own, thank you very much.

They both finished at the same time, and Amanda wrangled his legs into the braces.

“You need to wear shoes with them,” she explained, “Because they're too slippery otherwise. I don't want you to fall.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed them to put some sort of stupid slipper things on his feet. Non-slip soles and all.

“So, your ankles won't bend in these. Have you ever been skiing?” she asked, glancing up at him from her place on the floor.

Sherlock nodded.

“Good. So they're a bit like ski boots. They take some getting used to, but it will be better than your ankles doing whatever they want. I know you can't feel them, but it _would_ feel better. Ready to go?” she asked, double checking all the velcro.

Sherlock nodded.

 

Amanda positioned him at the end of the parallel bars again, and Sherlock was surprised at how much easier it was to walk when his ankles behaved themselves.

He might have even managed a smile as he sat back down in the wheelchair.

 

“Fantastic,” Amanda told him, beaming, and John looked pleased as well. “I'd like to try one more thing, then I'm going to take the braces off to check your legs.”

She disappeared from the room again, and John barely managed to hold his tongue, because Sherlock knew he was practically bursting with things to say.

 

Amanda returned with a pair of crutches, not the kind that went under the arm, but the kind that wrapped around the forearm.

Sherlock scowled at them, just on principle.

Because he knew what they meant. Underarm crutches were for broken bones, temporary things like sprained ankles and dislocated knees. Forearm crutches were for disabled people, those with cerebral palsy, spina bifida, nerve damage.

Like him.

And he so fiercely wanted to not be disabled, to not be damaged, because that's what it was, he was damaged and broken and he hated himself for it, like nerve damage was his fault, like being kidnapped and poisoned was his fault. _(What if it was?)_

 

Neither of them saw his expression, or maybe ignored it, because they didn't say anything.

Amanda got him to stand up on the parallel bars again, and she adjusted the crutches to his height and arm length.

Sherlock suspected he could stand up without the support of the bars, but he had minimal balance. Balance required foot shifting, and that he couldn't do. He'd probably be alright for a minute or so, then just... fall over.

Amanda finished the adjustments and showed him how to grip the crutches.

“How do those feel?” she asked. “Comfortable enough? Again, they'll take some getting used to, but they're much more comfortable than the other kind.”

Sherlock bit his tongue and didn't reply _hellish,_ instead telling her “Fine” with a tight smile.

 

He tried them out, and he had to admit, they were good. Better than the parallel bars, where he could only walk from one fixed point to another, and better than a wheelchair, which was limiting and short.

Of course, better yet would be walking unassisted, but that boat had long since sailed.

He sighed, and tried to smile at them.

“Good fit?” Amanda asked.

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. It wasn't a bad fit.

She beamed at him, and led him back to the wheelchair to sit. She undid the straps holding the braces on, ignoring Sherlock's winces at the velcro.

“You'll need to examine your legs carefully after every time you use them,” she told him, demonstrating. “If you notice anything, redness, marks, that don't go away within 20 minutes, don't wear them again. Make an appointment and we can get you a different pair for temporary wear. When your custom made ones come in, they should be a lot better fit, but this is just to tide you over.”

She glanced between Sherlock and John, and they nodded in turn. “Don't wear them for more than an hour at first,” she continued, examining Sherlock's legs for signs of injury.

“See,” she told them, pointing out a small red patch where the sock had slipped down. “This is the sort of thing I'm talking about. That should fade in a few minutes, but if it doesn't, we'll have to review our options. I'd recommend getting socks that are higher than the knee, so you can fold them back over the top of the AFO.” She stood up, Sherlock's legs suitably mark free for her liking. “Any questions?”

 

Sherlock tuned them out as John and Amanda spoke.

He nodded in the right places, and finally, John wheeled him back to his room.

 

“So Mycroft is sending a car for tomorrow, but I'm not sure you'll be able to make it up the steps. Do you have an opinion on that?”

“I'll be fine,” Sherlock said dismissively.

John sighed. “I'm sure you'll be fine, but will you be able to make it up the steps?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He was fairly certain he'd just answered that question, but John seemed easily confused.

Sherlock only sighed in response and clutched the various medical paraphernalia in his lap tighter as response.

 

John helped him into bed and excused himself, saying he had to go back to the flat to shower and retrieve clothes for Sherlock to wear home.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning he dressed himself, socks and all, and strapped his legs into the borrowed braces. His shoes didn't fit anymore.

He was surprised he didn't think of that.

John procured another pair of the horrendous slipper things he'd worn the day before with Amanda, and Sherlock put them on without too much moaning. Or rather, he allowed John to put them on, and didn't moan too much at him.

 

John wheeled him out to the waiting car, his bags in his lap and the crutches on top, balanced precariously on the footrest.

 

He got in the car on his own, and John slid in next to him, reminding him to put his seatbelt on like he was a child.

 

It wasn't a long ride to Baker Street, to _home,_ oh how he'd missed it. He missed Mrs Hudson.

“Does Mrs Hudson know?” Sherlock asked quietly, staring down at his legs.

John glanced over at him. “Yes. She was worried sick about you, you know. She was there while you were unconscious, but she didn't come back after that. You know she hates seeing you like that.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly. “And what's she going to do now?”

John looked sad. “You know that's not what I meant. She's had too many friends die in hospitals.”

Sherlock looked back out the window.

 

He was a little surprised that Mycroft hadn't accompanied the car to pick them up, but maybe he'd situated himself in a better tactical position. Like in the flat.

Sherlock scowled at the thought.

 

John might have picked up on some of it, because he spoke up.

“Mycroft said he wouldn't come over until tomorrow. Give you time to _settle.”_

Sherlock could hear the quotation marks surrounding that word. Settle, his ass.

 

“Whatever,” Sherlock muttered as the car pulled up in front of their flat, and the ache in his chest was so palpable he almost wanted to go back to the hospital to get it checked.

But it was the same ache he had when he was first taken, and the same ache he'd had before when he had to leave London, leave John, leave home.

Longing.

 

He managed to hide most of his smile from John, and instead attempted to look indignant as he snatched his crutches from John's hands.

John only smiled at him in turn, making him think his smile wasn't as well hidden as he thought.

 

He got himself to the door just fine, up the two steps, and John opened the door for him.

“Mrs Hudson is out right now,” John said, answering a question that he hadn't even asked.

That was relieving. She wouldn't be able to fret over him going up the steps.

 

Sherlock knew the theory behind it. He knew the theory behind a hell of a lot of things though, like driving, and look how that went.

“I'd like to try on my own,” he told John, who was hovering behind him.

John bit his lip, but nodded. He still stuck close behind Sherlock as he began to ascend.

 

Sherlock was quite pleased with himself when he reached the top of the steps and let himself into the flat.

John was plainly relieved.

“Well,” he said. “I wasn't sure if it could be done or not, but...”

Sherlock smirked at him. “I told you I could.”

John sighed. “Yes you did. Now, to the couch with you. Amanda said no more than an hour, and you're getting close.”

 

Sherlock let himself collapse onto the couch, and let John remove the braces. He could do it himself, but he was tired, physically and mentally, even though he'd done nothing but climb up some steps.

“Examine your legs,” John instructed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but obeyed, surveying them as Amanda had done.

John watched over him, apparently not trusting him enough to do it on his own.

They were fine and he told John as much, who hesitated before nodding.

 

“Do you need anything?” he asked from the kitchen, presumably getting food. “You should eat lunch.”

Sherlock frowned. The thought of food was repulsive at the moment.

“Not hungry,” he replied, grabbing his laptop, thoughtfully placed within arm's reach on the table. “Tea?”

John sighed, but the kettle was flipped on, and Sherlock heard two mugs being placed on the counter.

 

He did some more research about nerve damage, flipping over to his blog when John brought him his cup of tea. There were a few interesting messages, but mostly a lot of domestic disputes and some well wishers who'd heard he was kidnapped. He deleted the majority of them, replied to the three or so that weren't mind numbingly boring, and fired off a text to Lestrade asking about any recent cases.

 

His mind started to drift after that, so he set his computer aside, folded his hands under his chin, and went to his mind palace. At least, that was his intention.

He fell asleep on the couch and dreamed of chasing criminals, of climbing over tables and disregarding furniture norms. _“The floor is lava Mycroft!” young Sherlock had exclaimed. Mycroft only sniffed indignantly at him._


	7. Chapter 7

They made it through those first few weeks with a lot of tea and suffering.

 

Mrs Hudson made assorted biscuits and scones, like that would soothe the pain of Sherlock being newly disabled, and it almost worked.

It worked until he tried to get out of bed in the morning, and fell on the floor, because his feet wouldn't stay under him. It worked until he tried to get up from the couch and walk without using his crutches, because he forgot for a moment that he had to. It worked until he couldn't reach the shampoo in the shower from his sitting position, and instead just sat there until the water ran cold, because he couldn't think what else to do.

So yeah, it almost worked, in the way that the Titanic almost made it across the ocean.

Still, John seemed pleased that Sherlock was eating, like that was a concern. There weren't any cases, at least there weren't any ones that Lestrade was consulting about, probably because he thought Sherlock was too fragile, so there was no need to not eat.

 

But they made it through the first couple of weeks, with no loss of limb (ha) or scars to show for it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John had jokingly asked him when he was being casted for the AFOs if he wanted to get them in a certain colour.

Sherlock only glared at him, and John conceded that plain white would probably be fine.

 

Still, when they went to the fitting, Sherlock was surprised at how... solid they were. The ones he'd been using were temporary, so he could write off their dark blue colour.

But these ones, _his,_ were so clean and pristine it was almost frightening.

 

But both the orthotist and Amanda, who they went to see after his fitting appointment, agreed that they fit him better.

Sherlock had no clue. He couldn't feel them, or anything below his knees, so he didn't know why the man who was fitting them kept asking.

 

“No colour then?” Amanda asked when they returned the borrowed AFOs and Sherlock showed her what he could do.

“No,” Sherlock said shortly, and John only shrugged at her sympathetically.

“You've been doing PT?” she continued, ignoring the way Sherlock scowled.

When it was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to answer, John did for him.

“Yeah, we've got a guy coming to the flat three times a week. He's good, won't put up with any of Sherlock's crap.”

Amanda smiled at him and it nearly made Sherlock sick.

“Come on John,” he muttered, heading out of the room.

“Thank you again,” John told her, throwing her another apologetic look before trailing after Sherlock.

“That was rude you know,” he pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged as much as he was able while his arms were in use.

“I often am,” he replied.

John sighed, but didn't say anything else as they waited for the lift.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Just because he didn't have sensation in his lower legs didn't mean they couldn't get cramped up.

It was no wonder, because he was probably using them in ways they'd never been used before, putting tension on muscles that weren't used to being stretched and strained. Sometimes the cramps would travel all the way up his legs to his thighs, and he wouldn't be able to walk until the drugs kicked in and the heating pads soothed the spasms.

Sometimes he could tell his legs were cramping, just the way they looked and felt in his hands when he removed the braces. It did happen less with his new AFOs, the ones that were custom moulded to his legs, but it still happened.

 

John would help, work his ankles through the stretches that Alex had shown them. Some of them were too hard for Sherlock to do on his own, despite his long lanky arms. Sometimes Sherlock couldn't be bothered, or he'd waited too long and he couldn't bend his knees for the pain.

John knew a lot about that, about the pain. Sherlock could see it on his face, in his eyes, in the way he moved his shoulder when it was about to rain.

 

Sherlock may have cured John's psychosomatic limp, but the shoulder injury was very real. He'd seen the scar, only in passing, since he was fairly certain John was ashamed of it. It was messy and large, and it had done a lot of muscle and nerve damage. Sherlock had no doubt that John required a lot of painful physical therapy, and that it still hurt sometimes.

 

So John understood Sherlock's pain.

Sherlock thought that he felt guilt about it sometimes, when he'd look at Sherlock with his crutches, muttering about stairs and railings and walking places, and feel guilty that he could be cured, and Sherlock could not.

(On the worst days, Sherlock hated him for it, but not really, not in the way that hate eats you up from the inside out, but more of a superficial anger at the injustice of the world.)

Besides, it wasn't his fault.


	8. Chapter 8

They moved on.

But not in the simple way it seemed like, when they told people that.

“We've moved on,” John would tell people, like it was that simple.

 

And they did, because they had to, but it wasn't smooth sailing, it was cliffs and whirlpools and tidal waves.

 

“We've moved on,” he would repeat, when they kept asking questions, with a forced smile.

But human lives don't work that way. It's not the same as taking sand out of a bucket. The other sand fills its place, but it doesn't work like that with humans. They adapt and they work around it, but nothing can take the place of what they lost.

 

 

* * *

 

 

But they did move on, however complicated that was, no matter how simple it sounded. They did it because they had to.

 

Sherlock fell over once when he went to his mind palace and forgot he was standing up. He blinked at John when he came rushing back into the room, having heard the crash.

He fell out of the shower and John came bursting in, concerned he'd broken something or hurt himself, when all that was damaged was Sherlock's pride. He learned to dry off before trying to get out of the tub.

The milk was on the top shelf of the fridge, and Sherlock couldn't reach it without lifting a crutch off the ground and nearly falling over. The milk had to be kept on a middle shelf until Sherlock worked out how to balance with only one crutch. (John almost liked that for a bit, since they didn't run out of milk as quickly, but the frustration that it caused Sherlock wasn't worth it.)

Sherlock could no longer stand and play the violin, stand and compose. He had to do it all seated, which he normally did, but the limitations were frustrating.

But they moved on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John suspected Sherlock's lack of progress was what frustrated him most.

They both knew that the nerve damage could improve, and both knew the exact likelihood of that happening, but it still hurt when it didn't happen.

 

Despite all the physical therapy, three days a week with Alex, and the rest of the days with John watching over his shoulder, no feeling or control had returned to Sherlock's legs.

Alex tried to explain that it took time, if it was going to happen, for nerve to form and begin to work.

Sherlock only went off on a tirade about stem cells and the rate of nerve fibre growth (one millimetre a day), and Alex didn't bring the subject up again.

 


	9. Chapter 9

They eased their way back into crime solving and pursuing criminals.

John worried about Sherlock's stamina, and what others would say. He was fiercely protective of Sherlock, even though the man could more than fend for himself, and would balk at having someone else defend him, but John couldn't help it.

 

Sherlock pretended he didn't worry, but he glared at anyone who even glanced at him and dared them to say something.

Lestrade asked him how he was adjusting, and John was the one who responded, giving the standard answer, saying that they were moving on.

Lestrade nodded, and didn't believe it, but showed Sherlock to the corpse nonetheless.

 

He couldn't crouch down next to the body anymore, so he ditched the crutches and sat on the floor, folding his legs under him. Thankfully, they were indoors.

 

It was an interesting case, a likely poisoning, the victim found in their own home, staged in a sitting position, with three black dots drawn on her forehead.

Sherlock merely muttered _“fascinating”_ and went back to ignoring everyone in the room.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock spent most of the morning at the crime scene, and spent the rest of the day dragging John to various members of his homeless network, and they had nothing to show for it.

They took a last ditch attempt stop at the morgue, where Molly had nothing to tell them about the body.

John pushed Sherlock along before he could make her cry, but it was close.

They ended up back at the flat, exhausted and hungry with nothing to show for the long day.

 

“You need to eat,” John repeated.

“M'not hungry,” Sherlock mumbled, half curled on the couch, facing the wall.

“You might not be, but you need to eat. It's been a long day. What do you want?”

Sherlock thought about that. “Do we have any of those biscuits?”

John knew the ones he was talking about.

He smiled. “Yes we do. With tea?”

Sherlock snorted at him. “Of course.”

John tossed a pillow at him. “Don't be a smartarse. Take your braces off.”

Sherlock moaned, but rolled back towards the room. He was tired. And maybe a little hungry. A little tiny bit. Not like he was going to admit that to John.

He heaved himself into a sitting position and stripped the velcro off, still wincing at the sound it made, even after all this time.

 

He tossed the braces aside. John would help him to his room later, and when he said 'helped', he meant nearly carry.

 

John delivered him a cup of tea and a plate of his favourite biscuits.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Today didn't go well,” John agreed, because that was as close to an apology as he was going to get from Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled at him a little bit. “Can you pass me my laptop?”

John did.

 

They sat in comfortable silence until John stood up and stretched.

“I'm going to bed now. Let's go.”

 

John helped Sherlock to the bathroom and left him while he brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. Then he deposited Sherlock in his bed, removing the violin from within reach, and handing him the laptop instead.

“Go to sleep,” John sighed at him, before traipsing off upstairs.

 

Sherlock did.

Four hours later.

 


	10. Chapter 10

John woke him up in the morning with a disdainful look. Well, it wasn't the look itself that woke him up, but he had the look after he woke him up.

 

“It's nearly noon,” he said with scorn. “What time did you go to sleep?”

Sherlock tried to remember what time John had gone to bed to calculate an acceptable number.

“Erm...” he managed to say instead, trying to unstick his eyelids.

John rolled his eyes. “Right. That's all I needed to know.”

“Have you heard from Lestrade?” he asked hopefully. “Maybe about the autopsy?”

John shrugged. “He didn't text me. Check your phone.”

Sherlock looked at him pitifully.

“Oh for the love of-” John rolled his eyes, but trudged out of Sherlock's bedroom to collect the phone. He picked up the braces while he was at it, and the crutches, and dumped the whole pile on Sherlock's bed.

“Erm, thanks?” Sherlock managed.

“Want anything else, get it yourself,” John told him, smirking.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He threw the blankets off himself, thankful that he was at least wearing trousers, and examined his phone.

“Molly says she's done the autopsy, and we can come by this afternoon.”

He glanced up at John, who was still standing in the doorway.

“Okay, sure.” He frowned. “Did you not take your socks off?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No _mum._ ”

“Well I'm not taking you anywhere until you do. And you're dressed.”

“Should I shower too?” Sherlock drawled.

“Good idea,” John called over his shoulder, heading back out to the kitchen.

Sherlock slouched against the pillows. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath.

 

He gathered clothes from his drawers and threw them out the door and down the hall. He tossed his braces and his crutches after them. He wasn't going to make the effort to walk there, only to take them off to shower.

No, he'd survive the indignity of pulling himself along sitting on his rear. It wasn't like John hadn't seen it before. In the week when he was still getting used to the braces, and didn't wear them for more than two hours at once, it was too much work to put them on simply to go from his bed to the couch.

John snicked more than once.

He pulled himself into the bathroom, tugged his clothes in behind him, and set upon the task of showering.

 

John had damn well better make him tea.

 

His upper arms were gaining strength, although they were strong to begin with. He lifted himself into the shower chair and finished stripping his clothes off. He'd learned that the hard way. Too many times had he rubbed skin against dry plastic and tile. It hurt.

He stripped the socks off, which were a bit smelly. No wonder John seemed annoyed. His feet probably sweat a lot more in the braces, but he couldn't tell. It was a little late to do an experiment. It often was, he sighed.

 

Everything was within reach from his seated position, and Sherlock ducked out of the way while he turned the water on. He checked it to make sure it would freeze or scald him, then stuck his head under the spray.

 

He shampooed his hair and conditioned it, because it didn't just look like that naturally, and moved on to washing his body.

He took care with his feet, washing them gently, because he figured they deserved it. Plus, he hadn't checked them over the night before, and Amanda's nagging voice was in the back of his mind.

 

There was a small red patch on the back of his left heel. He frowned at it, rubbing it with the soap. It didn't change colour, and it certainly didn't hurt.

He dismissed it as rubbing from the floor, and moved on to soaping up the rest of his body, sitting under the spray for longer than was strictly necessary, just because he could.

It would give John more time to make him tea.


	11. Chapter 11

He made his way into the kitchen, fully clothed, hair still damp, and was pleasantly smug to find a cup of tea waiting for him.

“Shut up,” John muttered from the living room, and Sherlock didn't even ask how he knew.

“I told Molly we'd be there shortly,” Sherlock told him, perched precariously on a stool, sipping at his tea.

John sighed. “Let me know before you dash out the door.” He winced slightly at his choice of words, and Sherlock pretended not to notice.

He may not have been as speedy as he once was, but he could hold his own.

 

He nibbled at the conveniently placed toast. John tended to feed him by leaving food in strategic locations in the hopes that Sherlock would eat absentmindedly. Sherlock didn't have the heart to tell him that didn't work, not since the mould incident of '05, but he always like to humour John, and would often eat at least some of what he was provided.

 

He texted Lestrade while he sipped at his tea, asking about any developments in the case, although he wasn't hopeful. His best bet was the autopsy.

 

Lestrade texted back just as Sherlock finished the last of his tea. The results were as he expected, an apology.

“Come on John,” Sherlock told him, beckoning for his coat.

John sighed with the air of a put-upon man, but tossed it to him nonetheless.

Sherlock shrugged it on and did it up. It wasn't cool enough for his scarf, so he slid his hands into his crutches and set off down the hall.

 

John hovered behind him, practically exuding anxiety. He was still worried about the stairs, even though Sherlock had been using them for nearly three months now without any problems. Except for the one time. (It didn't count.)

 

He survived the stairs yet again, wondering if John would ever ease up on him about them. Probably not, but it was nice to dream.

 

He hailed a cab and they headed to the morgue.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly's autopsy findings were only slightly helpful, Sherlock reflected once they were home again.

Like the last two victims, this one had been poisoned with belladonna. All three victims had ingested the poison, but they had nothing in common, at least that Lestrade and his team could find, which didn't mean anything.

Still, there were no leads, no suspects, and no physical evidence.

 

Sherlock would have thrown his laptop across the room if he didn't love it so much.

Instead he threw a pillow, which just wasn't as rewarding.

 

He spent the rest of the day researching poisons, getting distracted solving a case from the 1890s, and ignoring John's pleadings for him to eat something.

It was dark out when he looked up again and realized he was hungry.

“John?” he called.

“What Sherlock?” John said wearily from the kitchen.

“I'll eat now.”

John sighed. “Of course you will,” he muttered to himself. But really, if he wanted to keep it to himself, he should have been quieter.

John brought him a plate of pasta, and Sherlock thanked him with a smile, one of his actual smiles, not one of the fake ones he used on clients and suspects and everyone else who wasn't John.

John only sighed to himself, whispering something about his life choices.

 

Sherlock ate the pasta while sending Lestrade an email about the case from the 1890s he solved, not like it would do any good, but it would make for a fun conversation.

 

John went to bed at some point, but Sherlock had relocated himself to the kitchen and was bent over his microscope. He may have gotten slightly distracted with the experiment, and only realized how late it was when he nearly fell off the chair out of exhaustion.

 

He dragged himself to bed, not bothering to undress except for removing the braces, and did velcro really have to be so loud? John could probably hear it.

He passed out with his face in the pillow and didn't stir once.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock woke up and was immediately wishing he didn't.

It was going to be that sort of a day.

 

But Lestrade called with another victim, and Sherlock couldn't pass that up. So he dressed in the dark and managed to end up with matching clothes, texting John grumpy messages about tea and how the brain worked. Or more about how his wasn't working since he'd been woken up.

 

He ignored John when he came into his room and asked what time, exactly, he'd gone to bed the previous night.

Sherlock only muttered something unintelligible and undid the velcro to spite him.

 

John swore at him and went to make tea.

“Better make two cups,” Sherlock muttered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tea didn't help, nor did the appearance of a fourth body, because there would probably be no evidence from it either. The autopsy results would show belladonna poisoning, and that would be it.

 

Sherlock didn't know why he was in a mood, but it was apparent that he was. He didn't want to visit a crime scene, he didn't want to do experiments, he didn't want to visit Molly at the morgue and help with the autopsy.

In fact, all he wanted to do was go home and sleep.

 

He snapped at Anderson at the crime scene, which surprised both of them. Anderson had been... decent since he'd been taken. Sherlock wasn't sure at first if it was because Anderson pitied the cripple, because he certainly wasn't going to stand for that.

He'd confronted him at one of the first crime scenes when he came back, and Anderson admitted it was because of John. He sneered at the idea that it was because Sherlock was disabled.

“I don't care about that,” he said flatly. “You're still a dick. But you didn't see John when you were gone. It broke him. And I figure if you can get a guy like him to care about you...” he shrugged. “There has to be something redeemable about you.”

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, which Anderson counted as a win.

 

So when he snapped at Anderson, everyone looked shocked for a second before they recovered.

Sherlock blamed it on the crappy day he was having, and snarled at Lestrade for good measure.

 

Sherlock could feel John staring at him in the cab on the ride back to the flat.

“What do you want,” he asked, making it clear he didn't really want to hear the answer.

“Are you alright? You're definitely off today, and I don't like it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Why would you like me like this?” he gestured to himself and curled closer to the window.

“That's not what I meant and you know it,” John said firmly. “Are you sick? Hurting?”

Sherlock only shrugged halfway and didn't speak to John for the rest of the ride.

_How would he know?_

 

He dragged his computer to his room and threw himself on the bed, pointedly closing the door with a crutch to keep John out.

He stripped the braces off, pulling at the velcro angrily. He needed to find something better, because this was going to kill him. He yanked the socks off after and threw them across the room, wishing he could once again wiggle his toes and feel silk sheets or lush carpets.

He poked at his legs for good measure, and told himself he was checking his sensory function.

 

He spent the rest of the day buried in research and still uncovered nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John knocked on his door around nine.

Sherlock grunted an approving noise, and John came in.

“I brought tea and takeaway,” he said, a peace offering.

Sherlock could smell it. Chinese. When did John get that?

“Thanks,” he muttered, and John set it down on the bedside table, sitting himself down on Sherlock's bed.

“I meant for the food. You don't have to stay,” he clarified, scowling as John closed his laptop.

John only shrugged. “Just wondering if you're in a better mood now?”

Sherlock sipped at the tea and rolled his eyes. “I told you before you even moved in that sometimes I don't talk for days on end. I don't see how this is any different.”

“I've seen you in your silent phases before,” John pointed out, which was true. Once he didn't speak for a week, so focused on a problem. “This isn't one. This is more of a six year old sulking because they didn't get enough sleep.”

“Well, I didn't get enough sleep,” he muttered, ignoring the fact that sometimes he would stay up for days on end without requiring rest.

John tilted his head, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel like he was being examined. “Are you sure there's nothing else?”

“If there was, I would tell you so you'd stop nagging me,” he snapped.

John stood up. “Okay. Sorry.”

Sherlock looked at his lap. “Thanks for the food.”

John nodded. “No problem. Door closed?”

Sherlock nodded, and with that, John left.

The Chinese food didn't taste quite right, but he wasn't sure why.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock didn't sleep well that night, which annoyed him to no end.

He woke up overheated, his blanket thrown off, and his sheet wrapped around his legs and torso multiple times like he'd been spinning in his sleep. Maybe he had been. How was he supposed to know.

 

There was a knock at his door, and then John was in his room.

“I've got a text from Lestrade,” (He held up his phone so Sherlock could see, which didn't work, because he was facing away from John, but it had the effect of lighting up the room.) “He says- oh jesus Sherlock.”

Sherlock grunted. He was fairly certain that was not what Lestrade said, but he couldn't be sure.

“How long have you had that?”

The light flicked on and the side of the bed sank down, so John must have sat or knelt on it. Sherlock had no clue what he was talking about.

“Leave me 'lone,” he muttered, attempting to pull the sheet over his head, but it was wrapped around him too much to move.

“Sherlock, I need you to look at this for me,” he said, and there was a note in his voice that nearly frightened him. If he was frightened. Which he wasn't.

Sherlock struggled to sit up, caught in the blankets and still trapped in sleep.

“What?” he asked, blinking.

He looked where John was pointing, which was his very own leg, the stupid thing. His left heel, where there had been a small red patch only a few days (was it a few days ago?) was now an open wound, looking painful and sore.

Sherlock winced, despite knowing it couldn't hurt.

John was crouched down, examining it.

“I mean, this is a stage two or three ulcer.” He looked up at Sherlock. “Did you not notice this?”

Sherlock wracked his brain, trying to think.

“I don't remember,” he admitted.

John frowned, and pressed a hand to Sherlock's forehead. He winced away, but couldn't deny that his cool skin felt nice. Was he feverish? That would explain a lot.

“You're warm,” John answered. “I'm going to take your temperature, and that will decide if we go to A&E or to a clinic.”

 

Sherlock laid back on his pillows when John went off to find the thermometer.

He had noticed. Back before the skin had broken, but he'd dismissed it as simple rubbing.

And then he'd gone and walked on it for... two days? He didn't even know how long it had been.

Maybe he did have a fever. It could explain yesterday's mood.

 

He was still pondering over that when John returned.

He obediently put the thermometer under his tongue and waited for it to beep, ignoring the way John was examining his foot.

Sherlock didn't even get to look at it, because John pulled the thermometer out of his mouth at almost the same second as it beeped.

“You do have a fever,” he sighed. “38.9. Come on, we're going to A&E.”

Sherlock groaned, attempting to roll over again, despite how well it had gone the last time.

 

He didn't want to go to the hospital, and possibly end up being admitted for IV antibiotics or something. He just wanted to catch the person who was killing all those people with belladonna. But John wasn't going to let him do that. If he needed to, he would drag Sherlock to the hospital bodily. Possibly drug him and then do it. John was unpredictable when it came to Sherlock's health, which was odd.

 

So Sherlock let John throw clothes at him, and he put them on. He let John examine his other leg, and deem it uninjured, before he could put the brace on. He let John bandage his ankle, and he fought with John about wearing the other brace.

He ended up wearing only the one brace, and John wrapped his other leg in enough gauze to choke an elephant.

 

Maybe Sherlock sulked on the way to the hospital, maybe he didn't. John certainly put his time to good use, phoning Alex and explaining what happened, since he was supposed to be over that afternoon, and trying to get ahold of Amanda.

 

John made him sit in a wheelchair to get into the hospital, and Sherlock supposed he was lucky that John allowed him to get down the stairs at the flat on his own.

(It was close to John picking him up and carrying him, but Sherlock pointed out that he would struggle, and it would result in both of them falling down the stairs and getting injured, and then Mrs Hudson would be taking care of them and their broken hips. John hovered closer than usual, but allowed Sherlock to do it on his own.)

He scowled at anyone who looked at him in A&E, including the admit nurse who took his vitals before sending him back to the waiting room. He scowled at John when he tried to make Sherlock fill out the paperwork, and he scowled at John when he tried to ask medical history questions he didn't know the answers to.

Sherlock supposed he could always blame it on the fever.

 

Either he was a higher priority than he'd thought, or they'd simply grown tired of him scowling at everything and everyone in the waiting room, because it wasn't long before they took him to a bed.

A nurse came along to draw blood and start an IV, and told them the doctor would be in shortly to examine Sherlock's foot, which John had been forced to unwrap for the triage nurse.

Sherlock simply continued scowling, and glared at his foot like it had done something to offend him. Which it sort of did.

 

To top it all off, he was uncomfortable. The location of the wound meant he couldn't simply sit up in bed, because it would be resting on the bed, with too much weight on it. Sherlock had shifted a number of times before John had given up, and gone to fetch a pillow to elevate his foot and keep it from touching the bed.

Sherlock stopped glaring for a minute, which was as close to a thank you as John was going to get.

 

The doctor was pleasant enough. She introduced herself as Doctor Gallagher, and Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to deduce her.

(That said enough about the state of his health right there.)

 

He ignored her while she talked about having him admitted for debridement and antibiotics. He didn't _want_ to be admitted. Why couldn't they just do this and send him home with the antibiotics?

He brought the point up, but John glared at him and effectively shut him down while Doctor Gallagher explained why not. He tuned her out after a while, since she was droning on about sepsis and antibiotic resistant infections, and he already knew too much about those.

 

His argument didn't matter in the end anyway, since he ended up in a ward with a plastic surgeon cleaning out the wound on his heel while he watched. The area had been thoroughly anaesthetized, like it mattered.

It was unsettling, watching someone cut into your own flesh and not feel any of it. It would have fascinated Sherlock if it hadn't also nauseated him at the same time. He blamed the fever for that, and had to look away, staring at John instead of his mess of a foot. Damn thing.

 

He hated everything in that moment.

 


	14. Chapter 14

The wound was healing well apparently, but Sherlock was forbidden from using his left brace until it had healed entirely, which John informed him would be at least three weeks.

 

Sherlock immediately asked to be put into a coma so he could sleep though it, since there was no way he was going to be invalided for that long.

The doctor laughed at him, and John shook his head.

Sherlock scowled at them again for the rest of the day.

 

He went home on the fifth day with oral antibiotics that the bacteria were sensitive to. And he was still in a mood, just because he could, and had no reason why not to be.

 

* * *

 

That day there was another poisoning victim, the fifth. The media was working itself into a frenzy, and the stress that Lestrade was feeling came across in his text.

John didn't want him to go, but was willing on one condition.

 

“You are either going in a wheelchair, or you are not going,” John hissed at him through gritted teeth. “You cannot walk well enough with only the once brace. Do you not remember what Amanda told you?”

“How could I forget?” Sherlock burst. “Amanda told me and the doctors told me and Alex told me and you will literally not stop telling me. But I am telling you I am not going in a wheelchair.”

“Then you're not going,” John said simply. “I'll go with the laptop and stream it to you, like we did before, but you are not leaving this flat unless you go in a wheelchair.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Fine. Whatever. Take the laptop. Go to the crime scene. Just don't be useless about it.”

John sighed at him. “Thank you for your vote of confidence, oh all-knowing one.”

Sherlock scowled at his back while John packed up the laptop and left the flat.

 

* * *

 

The victim had been found rather quickly, the body not quite cold yet. The first officers on scene hadn't moved it, because it bore the trademark sign that the killer left. The three black dots that Sherlock explained were meant to symbolize the berries of the belladonna plant. It was an interesting feature, but not very helpful in finding the murderer.

 

John pointed the webcam where Sherlock told him to with minimal moaning, on either of their parts.

 

It was an hour before he was satisfied with the crime scene and the body, and John was certainly happy that was over.

He turned the webcam back to himself. “They're taking the body to the morgue now. Molly will do the autopsy. I can come home and get you, and we can go if you'd like. She should have preliminary results by the time you manage to get dressed and such.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's comments, but he considered it.

 

The morgue was different from a crime scene. Only Molly would see him at the morgue, and not the whole of NSY. Sherlock could deal with Molly being awkward, heaven knows she was normally, but he could not deal with the pity of everyone he worked with. (Or the sense of justification, like he deserved it, because he knew that's what some of them thought.)

“Yes, alright.”

John smirked at him. “I'm on my way home now. You need to shower and put clothes on before I'm taking you anywhere. Got it?”

Sherlock huffed at him. “I'm not a child.”

John only raised one eyebrow before closing the computer and ending the conversation. Twat.

 

But he showered and got dressed and felt like he could be seen in public, even if he had to be in a wheelchair. John brought takeaway with him, and forced him to eat some before they left.

But eventually there was nothing else John could make him do without showing him a body, and John relented.

 

So he let John help him down the stairs and into the cab, and they headed off to the morgue to see the body.

 

They entered the room where Molly was writing in a file.

“Hello Molly,” Sherlock said to her quietly.

She glanced down at him sitting in the wheelchair, and wisely chose not to comment. “You're here about the newest poisoning victim?” she asked.

Sherlock nodded. “What can you tell me.”

“I don't think the poison's what killed him. He had it in his stomach, yes, but I don't think it's the cause of death.”

“What is then?” John asked. “It can't be a coincidence.”

“His heart,” she told them. “He had angina, and I think he may have been having a smaller heart attack that day. He'd been popping antacids like candy. He could have mistaken the symptoms. The belladonna gave him tachycardia, and I think it just pushed him over the edge. Not much of the poison in his stomach was digested yet, at least no where near as much as the other victims, and for a man of his size...” She shrugged.

Sherlock tented his fingers together. “Molly, can you isolate the poison?”

She frowned at him, but considered it. “It would be hard, but I could try. It's difficult because of the stomach acid.”

“Yes, but this man was taking antacids, so the effect should be lessened. I need the poison isolated to run it through the mass spectrometer.”

She tilted her head and looked at him. “You're going to try and figure out where the plant was grown.”

Sherlock nodded. “With the other victims the body wasn't found for a longer time, and they'd digested the poison more thoroughly. If we have any chance, it will be with this victim. The unfortunate timing of his heart attack may be the key we needed.”

She winced, but nodded at him, and he took that as his cue to leave, wheeling himself out with long strokes, and John had to rush to catch up.

 

Sherlock slept better that night, and he didn't know if it was because of the progress that he was _finally_ making in the case, or the sleeping pill that John mixed in his tea without telling him.

 


	15. Chapter 15

There was a text from Molly in the morning, and two messages she'd left, stammering and stuttering, but telling him that he was right, that she was able to isolate the poison and run it through the mass spectrometer. The text stated that she emailed the results to him, since he would know what to do with them better than she would.

 

He pulled his laptop close from where it sat on his side table. He opened the report that Molly sent him and analyzed it, committing the numbers to memory and trying to match them with the water from a certain part of London, the smaller the better.

 

He overlay the data on his mental map of London. Fortunately, the data was specific enough that the area was small enough to be considered helpful, rather than including half of London, which had happened before. Considering this was the only data set they had to go on for now, and he couldn't cross reference the areas with another variable, it was the best he could have hoped for.

 

He composed a short email to Lestrade, using small enough words that the DI could understand the science, and instructed him to canvas the area.

 

He considered that to be good work before noon, and set his laptop aside, pleased with himself. He put the one brace on, examining the healing wound after he did, and set off to the kitchen for tea and antibiotics.

 

* * *

 

 

It was another week before Lestrade called him with a lead.

 

“We have three addresses that are likely candidates for our suspect. I'm taking a team out today and I knew that if I didn't call you'd, I'd be hearing about it for weeks. So bring along John.”

He gave details of time and general location, smart enough to not give him the exact addresses, because Sherlock would go investigate on his own, and hung up.

 

Sherlock hollered at John and put his braces on, both of them, because he was healed, in fact he was _so_ healed that he'd be damned if he was going to sit this one out because of his stupid legs. He'd taken his last antibiotics, had taken all of them because he knew about antibiotic resistant bacteria, and John insisted that stuff was scary, and besides, he wasn't stupid. He hollered at John again because he wasn't getting up fast enough, and went to the kitchen to make tea. And toast, because John liked to eat things all the time, regardless of whether or not they were on a case.

John wandered down shortly after the toast was done, looking bleary and angry at the same time, muttering something about minimum requirement of sleep, which Sherlock was guessing he didn't get, although he didn't know why. He'd slept enough, and that was after he'd finished his newest composition around- oh. Right. He was playing violin into the wee hours of the morning. John probably didn't appreciate that.

Sherlock offered him apology toast, and John took it, even if he glared at him and still looked a bit angry.

 

They met up with Lestrade when they were supposed to, and John had perked up a bit by then, partly due to the tea, and partly due to Sherlock's commentary in the cab on the way there regarding how he'd cracked the case.

 

Lestrade split them off into teams, sending Anderson and Donovan on one, and taking Sherlock and John with him. They all knew it was for the best.

 

“Come on,” Lestrade beckoned. “The flat we're looking at isn't far from here. You okay to walk?” he asked Sherlock, who nodded, ignoring John's mouth opening to offer a protest.

 

They walked quietly for the first block, and then Lestrade offered some quiet compliments.

“It was good work you did on this case, Sherlock.”

John bit back the response he wanted to offer, saying that Sherlock did good work on _all_ cases, and not just ones he'd solved while disabled, but he knew Lestrade's heart was in the right place, and that it wasn't his intention to mean that. Simply that this was a tough case to crack, and like many others, would not have been solved without Sherlock's help.

 

The building was a bust, and Lestrade tried to not show his disappointment.

The flat was mostly empty, but did contain some circumstantial evidence, gardening books and fertilizer. They had no doubt that this was the home of their poisoner, but the man had fled sometime recently.

“I'll have the records of the flat dug up,” Lestrade sighed. “See who was renting it, if their hydro bills show anything we can use. Still, it's better than nothing. We can stake it out in case he comes back. I should call Anderson to come dust for prints, photograph the scene.” Waiting for a response from Sherlock, he realized something. “Where did Sherlock go?”

John glanced around and swore.

“He can't have gotten far on crutches. His max speed has been reduced, which helps for us to find him.”

“But if he was following a lead...”

“He could be chasing after the criminal,” John finished. “Alone, with no weapons.”

Lestrade sighed, and followed John, who'd already started jogging out of the building.

 

They'd barely made it out of the door before they spotted him.

John and Lestrade found Sherlock sitting atop the unconscious man who was their criminal.

It turned out, crutches made excellent weapons.

 

The man confessed easily, which Sherlock predicted. He'd wanted to take credit for the poisonings, it was why he left a calling card on each victim.

 

* * *

 

They invited Lestrade over for tea after it was all said and done, because there was no better way to say 'hooray for surviving a murderer' than to eat tea and biscuits.

 

Mrs Hudson was thrilled to hear about another case her boys had solved, and made the tea for everyone, even providing biscuits that were still warm from the oven. She joined Lestrade on the couch.

 

“You know,” Mrs Hudson said thoughtfully. “I was wrong about John when he moved in.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow over his cup of tea. “How so?” he asked, carefully setting the cup down.

“I told him that he was more the sitting down type. But I think that you are now,” she said, smiling sweetly at him.

Sherlock felt John flinch next to him, probably unsure of what he was going to do. (Logical, since he'd been in a mood recently.)

 

Instead Sherlock burst out laughing, and nearly fell out of his chair.


	16. Chapter 16

Two weeks after the belladonna case was closed (and the writeup was posted on John's blog) Sherlock called John into his room, frantic.

“What is it?” he asked, breathless from running down the stairs. He'd come from bed, his hair a mess, and sleep still heavy in his eyes. Trust Sherlock to call for him at such an early hour, when normally he'd sleep until noon if he hadn't anything to do.

“Sensation John!” he exclaimed, poking at his leg excitedly.

John blinked at him. “Really? Seriously?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, I just called you in here at this ungodly hour to play an elaborate prank on you.”

John frowned.

“Yes, John, I'm being serious.”

John beamed at him and pulled the sheet back over his legs. “Okay then, tell me which toe I'm touching,” he instructed, pinching one of the toes on Sherlock's left foot.

Sherlock concentrated. “Left foot. One of the little toes, it's hard to differentiate, they're all so close together.”

John removed the sheet and showed Sherlock he was pinching the middle toe. “Could have been a guess,” he pointed out.

Sherlock glared at him. “John, this isn't something I'd lie about.”

“Not consciously,” John countered.

“I have sensation back,” Sherlock insisted. “I told you that they nerves would grow back. It just took time because they only grow-”

“At the rate of one millimetre per day, yes, I know,” John sighed.

 

John grinned at Sherlock. “This is good, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. “Very good.”

Because even if he didn't regain motor control, or any more sensation than he had now, it was _something,_ and that would have to be good enough.

And it was.


End file.
